


A Contrary Case

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-01-04 23:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18354059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: Sherlock Holmes can only lie.John Watson can only tell the truth.They each believe the other is the same as themselves.*THIS FIC IS TEMPORARILY ON HIATUS.*





	1. Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

**Author's Note:**

> "What if opposites could be combined and transcended, paradox embraced, a whole life lived in **contrary case**?" -Rachel Hartman
> 
> The premise of this fic was prompted to me by [sudarshana7](https://sudarshana7.tumblr.com/) for [221B-Consolation](https://221b-consolation.tumblr.com/post/183824016041/221b-consolation-returns-for-2019).  
> 

“ _There are three types of lies: lies, damn lies, and statistics._ ” -Benjamin Disraeli 

* * *

If there existed but one grand truth, it was this: Sherlock Holmes was incapable of uttering words devoid of deception. He was full of the poison, cursed from birth to speak only lies.

At four years old, he’d made his mother tear up a bit when she’d asked her sons how they were enjoying their supper and he had responded, “It’s disgusting, mummy.”

It had, of course, been lovely. But what he’d thought was a simple uncontrollable urge to lie brought him to the larger bedroom in the house, hands wringing in on themselves as he asked his elder brother, ten years old at the time, “Why do the words from my mouth sound different from the thoughts in my head?”

Mycroft, who possessed neither the time for Sherlock’s presumed lunacy nor an understanding of the breadth of his brother’s affliction, answered: “You’re born for it. The instinct to lie is as deeply ground in myself as it is, and always will be, in you.”

Even at ten, Mycroft had been a self-important arsehole. Still, that night, Sherlock had cried silently into his cotton pillowcase until the sun began to peak its brilliant rays over the hillside. It had been the first time he'd fully appreciated that his experience was not a universal one. He was different in a way he couldn't even begin to comprehend.

He got older and wiser in unison, learning to manipulate his curse to minimize the inevitable pain on others and himself. He didn't _want_ to lie, yet he couldn't fight against it. He was seven years old when he learned about all the different sorts of lies: reconstructing, omission, disinformation, and the ilk. In this way, he learned that he could at least manoeuvre as close as possible to what the truth. If his mother cooked a warm, perfect meal and asked him how he liked it, he could instead say, “I prefer your potatoes,” and bring her slightly less sorrow. Although, in truth, she stopped asking him that question many moons ago.

He learned that anything shy of the whole truth was considered a lie. He tested this theory when he was ten in the mirror, trying to say, “My name is William Holmes, my favourite colour is blue.” The words were reverberating through his head ready to explode yet fell silent in his throat. He cleared his throat and gagged- the sensation of attempted truth was quite painful. He tried again, speaking a statement that was partially true: “My name is _Sherlock_ Holmes, blue is _one_ of my fav-” but the words caused him such pain, he had to stop. It was, apparently, too close to the truth.

He tried again: “My name is Sherlock Holmes, the colour of blue is decent on the eyes.”

With this, he felt burning and discomfort, but the words, their important truth diminished, successfully escaped freely into the world.

Over the years, with practice and dedication, he became quite good at finding loopholes: he could nod and shake his head if the question was yes or no, though his neck would get sore for up to days afterwards if he did so. He was additionally capable of answering yes and no questions on paper, though he couldn’t force his hand to write the full truth without the prompting. He’d learned that when a girl in 6th grade had passed him a note that said:

“ _Do you like me? Check YES or NO_ ” with two haphazardly boxes beneath the question. He had been able to successfully (and truthfully) check the box that said “no.”

Yet his most beloved method of conveying truth was through making commandments that _implied_ truth. For example, he was able to simply tell his brother to shut up when he was being unbearably imperious. Commandments, after all, were neither truth nor falsehood; they were simply orders.

Still, the fact remained that he couldn’t tell a full truth. He couldn’t even tell his classmates or family, “Hello, just be aware that I can’t tell the truth. Everything I say to you is a lie. Don’t believe me, ever!” because that was, infuriatingly, the truth.

He threw himself into his studies. He leaned into his natural ability to read the experiences of those around him. If he could burrow himself deeply enough into the pursuit of learning, he could ignore just how few people desired to come near him.

So he suffered alone and in silence. He watched as he made enemies with everybody around him and was helpless to prevent it. He would have given anything in this world or this life to be able to break himself of the malison that turned every person he’d ever known against him. They were right: he was rude, he was cruel, he was unbearable.

He was a freak.

* * *

“Well, bit different from my day.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to locate the source of the unfamiliar voice from where he was conducting some research for a case. Once he caught sight of the man, he was utterly helpless to look away. The lab, always dreary in its uneventful and quiet atmosphere, became the essence of radiance with the entrance of the gentleman who spoke those words. Sherlock was floored, baffled, positive in that moment that he’d never again be the same man that he’d been even one second earlier.

Why his vindication in this belief was so strong could not be explained. It was akin to grabbing wind, this inscrutable certainty that something about this stout, blond man was as revolutionary as if the sun had begun revolving around the moon. He was something more than a retired Army Captain, more than an insomniac, more than a man suffering from an eating disorder, more than an isolated introvert. No, he was much more- somehow.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock asked after noticing there was no lump in his trouser pockets where Mike Stamford usually held his mobile. He willed his voice to remain steady, cool. He dared not allow his eyes to linger for another moment after he began speaking- his lingering gaze would surely betray him. His phone did, of course, have a signal. But sometimes lies served a function, after all.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Stamford asked.

“I prefer to text,” he said, though he had no preference either way.

Manoeuvre around the truth. He was always manoeuvring around the truth.

“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Stamford said casually.

On cue, the man accompanying him fished his phone out of his own trouser pocket and offered, “Here, use mine.”

Success.

“Oh,” he said in mock surprise. “Thank you.”

He crossed over to the gentleman, taking the phone with ease as Stamford introduced him as an old friend of his named John Watson.

 _John Watson_.

Of this John Watson, he could deduce many things. He could read his brother’s alcoholism in his phone, his military experience in his posture, and his insomnia in the dark bags lying beneath his eyes. But the most important thing that he could read on John Watson was the manner in which he regarded his words carefully, the way they seemed to be ripped from his against his will.

If anybody in the world shared his unique experience, it was this man. He had never once thought it would be possible, but lightning does- sometimes, somehow, miraculously- strike twice.

* * *

Sherlock’s hypothesis was proven to be amply true within the first 24 hours of meeting John Watson. If he hadn’t believed it completely when their initial connection was evidently profound, he was made positively certain when John proclaimed loudly, on multiple occasions, that Sherlock was brilliant.

No one in his life had called him brilliant before. He’d been called weird, freak, arsehole, smartarse, and any other number of cruel names. But brilliant? Not once.

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

It was impossible for John- a man whom Sherlock found himself caring for deeply and devoutly after an incredibly short time together- to truly regard Sherlock so highly. Yet he saw himself mirrored within John. He saw disdain for the words falling from his mouth, saw the way he struggled with what he wanted to say, saw that he was hiding something. Therefore, what remained was, although infinitely improbable, that John Watson, like himself, could only speak in lies.

He wasn’t alone. He could be understood. If he played his card rights- if he believed the opposite of every word from John's mouth- he may never need to be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for the sun/moon, heart/brain, light/dark dichotomy that Sherlock and John always have. This additional dichotomy is simply fascinating to examine, so thank you, Sudarshana for the prompt. :)  
> Please be aware that this timeline and progression of events is similar to BBC canon, but will differ in several critical ways, especially as the story progresses. Stick around for plot development!


	2. Replaced by Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is truly elated when every word out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth seems to support his hypothesis that Sherlock, like himself, cannot tell a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware _minor_ changes to canon. We're world building from John's POV here.  
> Warning for mentions of past homophobia.

“ _When truth is replaced by silence, the silence is a lie_.” -Yevgeny Yevtushenko

* * *

It was obvious from the moment he watched those supple lips form the words, “That’s a stupid idea.”

It was obvious when John shook his hand and felt a jolt ricochet through his body with unabashed foreboding. It was the stuff of legends, the touch to jumpstart a grand story, the beginning of something he couldn’t express. A shiver traversed his spine, his soul elevating in a show of unadulterated joy.

A hesitant hypothesis formed in his mind, challenging him to prove its authenticity: Sherlock Holmes, this gorgeous, mysterious, genius detective, couldn’t lie. It was nearly the only explanation. After all, which person on this planet would  _ choose _ to be such an enormous dickhole? No, the truth of his situation seemed to be clear: John had finally-  _ finally _ \- met someone to prove that he was not, after all, alone in his curse.

It took (arguably) too long for John to realize that he was incapable of telling a lie. For a while when he was younger, he had assumed he was simply wrought with strong morals that caused lying to be a difficult task for him. He didn’t frequently desire to lie when he’d been a child, but when he had wanted to, he wasn’t able to do so. That fact had never concerned him until he was seven years old and his sister, thirteen at the time was caught in possession of several notes from a female classmate. Within those notes were declarations of affection, tender and innocent as whispered wind on a cloudless night. Yet his father had blown up upon finding them, hurling every hurtful word imaginable at her cowering, crying figure. He'd thrown the notes into the fire and, eyes barrelling through John who sat silent, miserable, helpless, and full of sorrow on the couch, demanded, “Tell your sister she's disgusting!”

But she wasn't. John didn't think so, at least. Girls were nice, usually. He liked their long hair. He could see why his sister would like one too. But that moment was not the time for admitting his lenience, so instead, he attempted to say, “Harry, that's gross.”

All that came out, however, was, “I don't think it's that bad.”

His father was not a kind man. He was not a forgiving man. And John suffered terribly for those words he hadn’t met to utter.

Alone, hungry, and trying desperately to stop his tears, John had wracked his brain for any possible reason he'd decided to tell the truth at that critical moment. For the first time, he realized maybe he hadn't decided at all- perhaps there was more to the problem than his upstanding moral principles.

Whispering into his blanket to muffle any sound that would alert his father to the rule-breaking, John softly uttered, “My favourite colour is red.” But the false words were stuck painfully in his throat before they saw the life of reality. Paralyzed with fear, John tried again: “My favourite movie is Pinocchio.” But again, his throat closed around it, stopping the words from seeking revelation.

It was then that he realized there was something quite wrong.

See, as a young child, the realization had no daunting impact on him. It turns out that children were often honest to a fault. Except, of course, in the matters of getting out of trouble. John, however, was a good kid. He listened, he obeyed, he did the work that was asked of him. His opportunities to lie were limited. Yet once he realized that he  _ couldn’t  _ lie, his life became a bit more complicated.

Denial ran rampant within him for a time. He didn’t know much, but he knew that other people lied. What made him so special? He was sure- convinced, in fact- that he was working himself up over nothing.

Time would unravel that poorly constructed theory.

The problem, of course, was that the truth is unbendable. If it isn’t a whole truth, it’s a lie. He was cursed- always cursed- to express his purest, truest thoughts. It was a gruelling monster, chasing his every word, frightening him as he fought for any place at all to hide. He found his sanctuary in the temple of silence.

And here was a man whom John felt himself inexplicable connected to. Hardened by the world, like himself, Sherlock had passed over any illusion of sanctuary from the monster and instead, embraced the curse without shame.

It was admirable, really. To accept oneself so wholly. 

People thought he was rude; a proper arsehole. But John, who understood how ordinary people often detested the unfiltered truth, knew better.

Or perhaps he was wrong. There was nothing to do but spend a bit more time seeking verification of his conviction, though, admittedly, his bias was perceiving every new scrap of evidence from this gorgeous man as proof of his theory.

* * *

“People don’t have archenemies.”

That day for John had been one for the books: a crime scene with a mysterious death, a connection to a serial killer, and a string of phone calls from a man offering John to spy on Sherlock. After all of it, he was at a softly lit restaurant across from an enthralling man and interested in discussing only one thing: uncovering whether or not John’s frankly rapid infatuation was mutual.

Sherlock took one extra moment to look out the window for his supposed serial killer before turning his head to John, and, blinking, asked, “I’m sorry?”

“In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen,” he elaborated, attempting to mask his inner monologue that was marvelling at the man across from him.

Whatever curiosity John had stirred within Sherlock surely faded in that instant, for Sherlock’s face dropped and returned to looking out the window that had so raptured him. “Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.”

Okay, he clearly wasn’t getting the point. That, or he was deliberately being an ass. “So who did I meet?”

“What do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives’?” he asked, still not allowing his eyes to leave the window pane.

John recognized this tactic: to avoid answering a question that you don’t want to answer truthfully, turn the question back on them. It’s not a lie; it’s misdirection.

“Friends. People they know. People they like. People they don’t like. Girlfriends,” his words were knives out of his mouth, agony to propose.  But why maintain this small, foolish hope if there was not even a chance? “... Boyfriends?”

“Yes, well, as I was saying – dull.”

_ Ouch. _ “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend?” He sounded bored when he said it, like how John might say ‘out of order toilet stall,’ though his words were deliberated heavily before he spoke slowly to his sacred window, “No, not really my area.”

_ Shit _ . “Mm,” was all John could manage to say as he watched Sherlock grimace in a sort of pained way and rub his throat absentmindedly. He should have supposed that this cold, calculating man was turned off to the idea of relationships. After all, which relationship could sustain constant, unfiltered truth? (John knew the answer from experience: no relationship could.) No, of  _ course,  _ he wasn’t the relationship type. John heard his words reverberating throughout his head, each echo another stab of disappointment. “ _ Not my area, not my area, not my _ -”

Wait.  _ Girlfriends _ weren’t his area. Could that mean-

“Oh, right. D’you have a boyfriend?”

He held his breath and Sherlock turned abruptly away from his precious window at this new question, startling him out of his hyper-fixation.

“Which is fine, by the way,” John rushed to say as Sherlock’s eyes only narrowed on him.

“I know it’s fine,” he snapped, not softening his stare one iota. 

John smiled despite himself, knowing in his soul that this was, in fact, the truth. Sherlock knew it was fine. “So,” he continued, astounded by his own bravery, “You’ve got a boyfriend, then?”

Sherlock was looking at him with increasing frustration and John wondered if he’d gone too far; pried too deeply into his personal hoard of secrets. He looked to be struggling deeply, perhaps to decide whether or not to tell John off for his persistently nosey questions.

“There is no one I’m interested in,” Sherlock said finally, but it seemed to take a great deal of effort to say. He looked… almost sad at the words- perhaps even defeated. John shouldn’t have put him in this position, forced to make Sherlock tell the truth and reject him so soon into their knowing one another.

John could think of little else to say, so he rambled forward. “Right. Okay. You’re unattached.” Oh, God, he was ruining this. “Fine.” He cleared his throat, willing for the moment to pass. He couldn’t believe he was voluntarily isolating the only man alive who was like him after a day of knowing him. “Right.”

John turned his attention to the food in front of him, willing its presence to fill the tense, uncomfortable silence between them. Because there was grace in the world, Sherlock turned his attention back to the window and, for once, John was grateful that Sherlock had a distraction from this conversation. He couldn’t believe his own burning humiliation, but if there was one silver lining to all this, it was that John now knew with certainty that Sherlock was not a viable romantic interest. Still, those dark curls, those voluptuous lips-

“John, uhm,” Sherlock’s voice came suddenly and John looked up to see Sherlock’s attention directed toward him once more. His eyes were soft, brimming with a meaning John couldn’t translate. “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest-”

“No,” he blurted out, humiliation burning throughout his entire body. “No, I’m not- not -No.” He couldn’t finish any sentence without lying, so they continued to break off before reaching fruition. Impossibly, a look of distinct curiosity crossed Sherlock’s face. As though he were the one being rejected. “I’m just saying- it’s all fine.”

A long moment passed between them, Sherlock’s gaze stripping him down with analytic mastery like he scanned the dead bodies he deduced for evidence. John’s words were clearly perplexing to him, his eyes narrowing to sort out something he wouldn’t share.

When he finally spoke, he was distant, his mind already far from the conversation. “Good. Thank you.”

That night, John was kidnapped by a maniac and rejected by the most beautiful, entrancing man (or person in general) he’d ever met and it still ended as one of his life’s greatest nights. John’s disastrous inquiry into Sherlock's romantic interest and Sherlock’s brutal honesty of his complete _dis_ interest stung when John would recall it in the many nights to come, but their subsequent mad chase of an ultimately innocent American travelling abroad and their laughter in the hallway would ring through his mind to offer joy and hope even in his darkest days. 

Which is why, when they returned to the disastrous flat to claims from Detective Inspector Lestrade that they were in on a drug’s bust, John scoffed at the idea.

“Seriously?” John laughed, ridiculing the notion. “This guy, a junkie? Have you  _ met _ him?”

“John…”

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call ‘recreational.’” 

“John, you probably want to shut up now.”

“Yeah, but come on.”

Sherlock’s eyes were blazing and for the second time in one night, John felt that he was attempting to nonverbally convey something he could not say aloud. Perhaps he didn’t  _ want _ to admit the truth- silence was a tactic John would often use himself. But that would mean-

“No,” he whispered, scanning Sherlock’s face for something to reveal that he was joking while trying desperately not to fixate on those god damned lips. 

“What?” His defences were high.

“You?”

“Shut up!” Sherlock snapped, turning away.

John was very much mistaken if there wasn’t a great deal of shame in the phrase. He didn’t want to admit the truth. But he couldn’t lie- so he deflected.

John was enthralled, fascinated, and positive he was falling hard enough to shatter his whole body whenever he finally landed in the depths of love. He couldn’t have stopped this magnetic attraction even if he had wanted to- and he should have wanted to. But, of course, he was guiltily enjoying his fall.

* * *

Over the next three months, John came to realize that Sherlock, as it turns out, was wildly untamed. He was chaos, he was manic, he was raving mad.

He was brilliant.

Utterly brilliant.

There was something more than kinship that drew John to him- more than his now-certain conviction that they shared an affliction. More than their sharing a flat. More than John’s desire for action and adventure that Sherlock amply supplied.

Sherlock was the moon and John, the tides. Bending to his will, following where he led, and helpless to do anything else, John could have dried himself up for the chance to close the distance between them. 

Sherlock made no effort to mask his impulse to tell the truth. Those around him regarded him as uninhibited, rude, and unmannered. John knew better. Sherlock, as brilliant as he was, surely noticed John reflected in himself. It was only three months in each other's presence and they were already irrevocably changed for good. John didn’t know what to make of their bond.

Knowing that Sherlock was not interested in him didn’t stop him from longing, try as he did to ignore it. His long, musical fingers pried their way into his dreams, his startling eyes searched until they found their way into his thoughts throughout the day, his unruly hair curling around his heart and would prevent it from beating properly.

Infuriating, brilliant, and gorgeous, Sherlock’s very existence was John’s own drug and he could never wait for his next fix. And that was the truth.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for lines from canon to this [ASiP Transcript](https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43047.html).
> 
> If you fancy it, find me on Tumblr:  
> [itsalwaysyou-jw](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com)


	3. Seas of Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth must come out eventually. But how can Sherlock draw it out when he cannot speak the truth?

“ _We're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding._ ” -Rudyard Kipling

* * *

 **Several** **Months Later**

If ever there were a worse position to live in, Sherlock would love to have heard it. As far as he was concerned, living with a handsome soldier )with whom he shared a profound connection) and being unable to profess any sincere affection was a nightmare akin to legitimate torture.

Every morning, John would trudge out of his room with sleepy indifference in increasingly scandalous robes that were testing the limits of Sherlock’s self-control. John would reach on tiptoes for whichever food would satisfy his breakfast cravings in the cabinet and the expanse of thigh that would reveal itself as the robe lifted to expose him was tantalizing- positively paralyzing. Mouth open, words falling silent, Sherlock found he was incapable to looking away for those scarce seconds that it took John to grab the cereal, granola bars, or oatmeal (with which he would use water from the kettle to make). Following polite conversation (or as polite as Sherlock could manage- the sight of exposed skin would often derail Sherlock’s mind for several long minutes), John would retreat to his room to change but emerge with several buttons remaining undone, his shirt untucked. John would ramble on about his plans for the day or ask Sherlock if there were any exciting cased while his doctor’s hands worked their way up the remainder of his shirt. This, perhaps, Sherlock could deal with if John didn’t insist on tucking his shirt into his trousers _right in front of him_.

Though he remained silent and composed, it filled Sherlock with a mad desire to immediately unbutton his shirt and remove it from his waistband.

The afternoons were tortuous due to his absence. Certainly, being around John on those sleepy, rushed mornings were difficult, but occupying himself without John was worse. Why did John have to work at all? It wasn't fair. To his dismay, he had, like Henry Higgins, grown accustomed to his face. Much akin to Henry Higgins, Sherlock was a callous, critical, and prideful man. John Watson was not entirely dissimilar to Eliza Doolittle- rough around the edges and torn between his old life and his new one. Though, in truth, Sherlock had always had quite the crush on Freddy- the man who professed his love so beautifully.

Their evenings together were nothing short of domestic perfection since they'd grown used to one another's routines and behaviours. John, so frequently prone to outbursts of anger, seemed generally calmer in these hours. In the dim twilight's illumination, his muscles would relax, his guard fall down. These were the moments of innocent touches- brushings of his hand along a small expanse of Sherlock’s shoulder blades as he slipped behind him in the kitchen or gentle brushes of their knees as they sat in silence together on the couch. These touches were electricity in his heart, fire in his blood. It took nearly everything in him not to tense up at the contact, though he couldn’t always help it. He gazed on John as though he were the sun- which, of course, Sherlock thought he was.

John, the sun and Sherlock, the moon, desperately reflecting whatever amount of light he could manage.

Then, inevitably, John would retire to bed with murmured adieus that left Sherlock simultaneously elated in the remaining effects of his presence and empty from his departure.

Sherlock had never been happier nor more in pain. For what on this damned Earth was he to do? Profess his love? Ask him on a date? Discuss their situation? How would any of that work? Sherlock, with his inability to share any truth and John with his?

The scenarios ran through his head on an endless loop, increasingly more desperate as time progressed.

 _John, I would like to take you on a date_.

Nope, that was true.

_John, would you fancy a date?_

That could work. No truth, just a question. But then what about when they were  _on_ the date? How could he share any portion of himself?

The real problem, of course, was that, although he knew John to be the same as himself, he didn’t _really_ know. Not for certain, at least. His theories were repeatedly confirmed, though perhaps John was simply a chronic liar as opposed to a cursed soul forced to avoid the truth. But how could he ask?

_Hey, John! Are you cursed to eternally lie?_

Because, of course, if Sherlock _was_ right, John would say “No, I’m not!” and if Sherlock was _wrong_ , John would say, “What? No, I’m not!” and either way, he was no closer to confirming his theory.

In the meantime, Sherlock presumed it was a safe practice to assume the opposite of every word that came from John’s mouth. So far, it seemed to be working.

But he had an idea- just the beginnings of one. It would take a great deal of courage (which was truly not his forte), but desperate times called for desperate measures. And he was, indeed, desperate.

* * *

He waited until the last rays of the day were peaking between the buildings of London, the city slowing down as its residents retreated into their homes for restoration. Their flat was growing dim with the day, only the kitchen light remaining on as their eyes and souls adjusted to the incremental changes in their environment. It was silent between them, a gentle breeze coming in through the window occasionally to tousle Sherlock’s hair as he stared intently off in the distance, lost in his thought while John read a book intently across from him.

“John,” Sherlock projected hesitantly into the soft quiet between them.

“Hmm?” John hummed, his eyes lingering for a long moment on the page in front of him before tearing himself away from the book and closing it, leaving a finger between the pages he’d been on.

“You are… of moderate intelligence,” Sherlock said, barely able to meet John’s eyes. So many things could go wrong with the things he wanted to say. Terror was rearing its powerful head at the forefront of his mind and he fought valiantly against crumbling into it.

John’s eyebrows furrowed together, clearly put off by the sudden and rude interruption of his quiet. “Gee, thanks,” he said, confused irritation painting the words.

Sherlock pushed forward, hoping to change the direction of John’s mood. “I don’t mean you’re-” but his throat burned with the almost truth. He twisted his face from the fire in his throat and altered his tactic. “I mean to say… has your moderate intelligence allowed you to-” a deep breath to steady his nerves- “nothing anything peculiar about me?”

“You mean besides the fact that you’re a massive git?” The words were harsh, but there was a hint of a smile that fed his bravery.

“Yes, of course besides that,” he said, smirking.

John studied him with unsure eyes for what felt to be a small eternity. Whole stars could have been born and crumbled within the time that Sherlock sat, breath bated, for a response he was certain would never come.

“Yes,” he said finally, slowly, uncertainly. He removed his finger from his book and set it down beside his leg. “I reckon I have noticed a certain… affliction of yours. Or suspected, at least.”

A lightness filled him that could have permitted him to take flight right there and then. Joy beyond joy, relief beyond relief, and hope beyond hope made his soul as buoyant as air.

“Right,” he said, words trembling from the effort to contain his excitement. “So you know that I can’t-” _nope, change direction_. “So you’ve noticed that I never-” Since he couldn't finish these thoughts, he let the sentences fall away to insinuation and was elated to find a smile spread wide and disbelieving on John’s face.

“Yeah, Sherlock. I’ve noticed.”

It was better than he ever could have hoped. John noticed when no one else ever had. Could it be because John, unlike everyone else, had reason to suspect?

“And what if I suggest that _you_ cannot lie?”

John looked as though was barely able to believe it. His smile was one of disbelief, his eyes narrowed and suspicious even as the expression upon his face radiated true joy. “I would say- Well, I would say that you’re- you’re wrong.”

A bubble of uncontrolled, giddy laughter bubbled out of Sherlock without warning, the truest joy he’d ever felt overwhelming him wholly. This was better- smoother- than he'd ever imagined. “Right,” he managed to say through a smile that threatened to strain every muscle on his face. “Quite right.”

“You know,” John said, suddenly on the edge of his seat and his body language exposing his own glee, “I’ve never told anyone before.”

“I have,” Sherlock said with a mischievous grin, knowing now that he could share his blatant lies without fearing a misunderstanding. Still, he wondered who John had told and how he’d managed it. After all, “I’m incapable of telling the truth” and “I can only tell lies” were both impossible for them to say. Perhaps someone had guessed? Maybe he’d found a way to convince someone with only lies? It didn’t matter, he supposed. All that mattered now was John- here, now, and Sherlock, miraculously no longer alone in what had been a life-long suffering.

John appeared somewhat surprised by his response, but he shrugged it off and, feet tapping to an unheard rhythm. Sherlock continued, “So… in light of... _this_ : how about dinner? A proper one?”

“I think that would be a wonderful idea,” John said simply. Something plummeted within Sherlock. It was short and cruel, a quick declination of Sherlock’s attempted advances. John was clearly trying to keep his face a calm mask as his words rapidly shot down nearly every hope residing within Sherlock’s heart, which had grown so large, the deflation of it was all the more painful. “Sherlock, I… fancy you a great deal.”

Sherlock blinked, his heart wrenching painfully from this show of excessive cruelty. What was John getting at? What, pray tell, was the purpose of this level of emotional brutality? Sharp, surprising tears made themselves known by burning painfully behind his eyes. He refused to concede them, refused to show just how much John had disappointed him. His face twisted into a mask of deflective anger.

“Yeah, well,” he said, rising to his feet and refusing to meet the grey-green eyes that were wide upon him, “I’m not particularly bowled over by you, so I reckon we’ll forget about the dinner, ta.”

He'd been wrong. There _was_ a worse position to live in than the one he'd been in before. He knew it with certainty because this was it: John seeing Sherlock for who he really was and deciding that he didn't want him.

His strides were long and intentional as he escaped from this fresh hell, trying desperately to avoid casting one last look at John and failing. What he saw haunted him into the darkest hours of the night: John, on the edge of his seat as he gripped the armrests tightly enough to turn his knuckles which. He appeared perplexed, caught off guard with wide eyes, an open mouth, and absolutely no intake of breath. Worse and most confusing of all, he appeared quite as hurt as Sherlock felt as his heart experienced a magnitude of disappointment he felt quite ill-equipped to handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to shake our boys by their shoulders and scream at them that they are both drastically misunderstanding one another. If you spot a plot hole (for there is a big one in this chapter), I hope you'll have faith in me that I will resolve it. ;)
> 
> Forgive my absence, folks. 🙏 My other WIP ([Welcome Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444141)) takes priority because it's my passion project.  
> As a little nod, Jeremy Brett (Sherlock Holmes from Grenada Holmes) actually plays one of the love interests in the movie version My Fair Lady (Freddy), which is referenced in the third paragraph of this chapter. :)


	4. Never Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two weeks since the evening Sherlock had confided in John their shared affliction. After the night ended in utter confusion for John, things between him and Sherlock are tense and John is desperate to repair their bond.

“ _The truth is rarely pure and never simple._ ” -Oscar Wilde

* * *

It has been said that with age comes patience. Others have said that with age comes great wisdom. John Watson, however, was able to refute both of those claims with confident certainty. For there were many words that you could use to describe John Watson: brave, for one, and defiant for another. And although he was, indeed, ageing, he could not be described as patient nor wise.

Rather, John fancied himself confused and impatient in all matters. This was most evident in every situation pertaining to Sherlock Holmes. What, pray tell, had happened that evening in the sitting room two weeks ago? Though that was the question consuming him at present, he was also still wondering about the many mysteries that had plagued him since their first meeting.

It was a contradiction with no end. On one hand, Sherlock was cold and cruel, vicious and unmistakably flippant with the emotions of others. On the other hand, Sherlock was wounded and secretive, his actions seemingly at odds with whatever emotions (if any) he experienced.

Regardless of speculation, there seemed to be no answer at all for how it had all gone so wrong. The hours John spent dwelling on the disastrous conversation in his mind were simply wasted minutes in retrospect. Yet he could not tear his mind away from trying to figure out what had happened.

“ _In light of... this: how about dinner? A proper one?”_

Alright, so Sherlock had definitely asked John out. He’d definitely proposed a proper date to contrast their many other platonic outings… hadn’t he?

John had responded positively… hadn’t he?

He didn’t know anymore. The memory in his head, although it felt sincerely accurate, was now so muddled with confusion and regret, he couldn’t say with any certainty what had really occurred between them. All he knew was that, ever since, Sherlock had been wholly withdrawn and increasingly antagonistic. The wedge that had formed between them that night was growing every day and John was helpless to close the distance. Sherlock did not talk to him, he didn't invite him on cases, he barely looked him in the eyes, and John's questions were met with hostility.

The changed dynamic between them pained him in a way he could not express. It was sharp, unrelenting. John felt that he'd lost a friend- and in a way, he supposed he did.

* * *

“Where are you going?”

Sherlock, half out the door of their sitting room, stopped in his tracks without turning around. “I don’t believe that’s your business.”

John ignored his stiff demeanour, rising from his seat and disposing of the daily paper he’d been reading. “Is it a case?” Sherlock remained silent, his wordless response a thunderous confirmation in his ears. “Right,” John said mechanically. He resented that this was now the third case in a row that Sherlock had undergone alone. John, it turned out, had gotten accustomed to the thrill of accompanying him on those wild adventures.  “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I see no reason to confide my private business in you,” he snapped, his back still turned, head downcast. “Which of us is for hire as the world’s only consulting detective?”

Blood was boiling hot within him, his heart pumping the scorching substance throughout his body and leaving behind hyper-sensitive nerves. His hands flexed in on themselves thrice, his mouth working against aggressive retorts he knew would do no good.

“Right,” Sherlock said when John’s anger simmered in silence for too long. His long legs carried him away and the sound of his retreating feet trotting down multiple steps awakened John’s voice.

“Sherlock!” he bellowed, desperation for understanding mixing with indignation at being treated as such. He chased him down the stairs and caught him standing still once more, hand frozen to the doorknob and eyes still refusing to meet John’s.

“What is it, John?”

Was it his imagination or was there a trace of defeated sorrow to the question? “That’s it, then?” he demanded of his friend turned stranger. “No cases together? No talking? We’re just two blokes who share a flat?”

“Is that not all we’ve ever been?”

“Enough with the Goddamned questions,” John shouted into the air above him, fighting the anger in him that demanded to be physically expressed. The implication that this icy relationship was all that ever existed between them... When John could still hear echos of Sherlock's lilting laughter, could still see his dazzling smile in his mind after a night out...

“I’m sorry that I will not accept being little more than a person of interest for your pathetic blog, John.” The words were rigid and monotonous. They were practised words, John knew. “But as you know, I prefer to work alone; all you do is slow me down.”

John had grown used to Sherlock’s unusual cruelty. His blatant honesty in all matters and his absolute refusal to consider the feelings of others were two appealing elements that had initially intrigued John. Ordinary lies to fluff the egos of others was dull, after all. But this present, unfiltered honesty regarding John’s place in Sherlock’s life was a knife in his heart and unrelenting hurt in his soul.

And knowing that must be the truth- for Sherlock had confessed he could only speak in truths- John stepped away. His act of distancing was all the permission that Sherlock needed to leave, apparently, for he twisted the handle in his grip and flew out the door without another word.

John did not know how long he stood in that entryway. It could have been several long minutes but it also could have been several hours. Time didn’t matter, not when such heartbreak was rearing its head within him.

Distantly, he knew it was silly to consider what he was feeling as “heartbreak.” He was not dating Sherlock. He had never been dating Sherlock. All John ever had- and all he’d ever clung to- was the suspicion-turned-confirmed-fact that John was not, after all, alone. Sherlock, cursed as John was cursed, could understand him in a way he had never expected to be understood.

This, apparently, was not enough of a connection to warrant any furthering of their relationship to Sherlock.

When his feet finally, reluctantly, slowly carried him back upstairs, he couldn’t bring himself to settle back into his woven chair in their shared sitting room. He hauled himself upward further until he reached his room and, closing the door behind him, he sat down on his bed.

Whatever had happened between them two weeks prior, John still did not know. He understood now, however, that Sherlock had never been coming onto him. No, that must have been John’s internal bias. John had wanted it so badly, yearned for it so deeply, he’d concocted new meanings to Sherlock’s innocent curiosity. And now, they knew the truth of each other. Yet the truth was not enough.

Their shared life experience was nothing. John had been so desperate, so instantly smitten… so foolish.

A plan bloomed in his mind then. A plan so egregious, so painful to imagine, he created a stipulation: he would attempt, once more, to talk to Sherlock before acting quite so rashly.

* * *

It was days before John was able to procure time alone with Sherlock once again. The case, it seemed, must have been an interesting one for his friend- if he could call him that still- did not return home but for brief flashes of time when John could not talk to him.

When he found Sherlock in the sitting room, his eyes closed as he sat regally upon his black chair, John’s heart constricted painfully. The morning light filtering through their ill-shaded windows cast beautiful shadows across his pallid face. His long fingers were templed gracefully beneath his chin, his motion so minute, he could have been a robe-clad greek statue. He was so beautiful, John felt blessed to be even near him.

It was no surprise to him that Sherlock did not stir one iota when John walked in and sat down across from him. He never seemed to notice John’s actions when he was like this.

“Sherlock,” he said, leaning forward on his hair so that his elbows were resting on his knees, hands clasped together. When Sherlock did not awaken, he tried again, louder, “Er, Sherlock?”

His eyes flew open, the wild blue of them bearing deep into his soul. “What?” he snapped.

His mouth was suddenly too dry to form the words he wanted to. He stumbled out the words, “I- Can we talk?”

“Of what?”

“Of- About- About that night that we- That you-”

“Oh, you mean of the night I confided in you?” He said it with a raised eyebrow, his voice still dripping with defensive sarcasm.

“Yeah,” John answered, licking his lips to have something to do. “That night.”

“What about it, then?”

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he forced the words out, though they escaped perhaps too quickly. “I’m afraid I offended you greatly that night, Sherlock. I- I didn’t mean to. I must have misunderstood what you were trying to say and I didn’t mean to overstep or hurt you. I’m so-”

“You didn’t hurt me.” His eyes were knives into John, unwavering, unblinking. John had been expecting an elaboration, but none came.

If that was true, then...

“Then why-”

“Because,” he interrupted again, speaking so every work out of his mouth was clipped, “I work alone.”

It seemed an inadequate explanation yet he understood that there was no possible way of forcing Sherlock to talk if he did not want to. Silence, after all, was the greatest lie. The emptiness within him was so profound, it was all he could do raise himself from his seat. He walked away without glancing back, without asking further questions.

Everything had changed. He didn’t understand why or how. But he knew he could not live with this man who would always be a reminder of what he had been so close to having: companionship and understanding. This new, distant Sherlock was a stranger to him. He could see no happy future that included himself tip-toeing around the one person John had held out immeasurable hope for. He would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't holding out hope still, even now. 

He knew what he had to do even as he fought against it.

He knew what he must do even as he shrunk away from it.

He knew he had to move out of 221B to spare himself (and Sherlock, too) unnecessary pain even as his heart constricted painfully at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always darkest before the dawn. Next chapter will be more exciting, I promise. ;)


End file.
